


Lean

by mansikka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 04:20:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10689633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansikka/pseuds/mansikka
Summary: Post-hunt, Dean is wounded and weary; Cas wants to help.





	Lean

“Would you stay?”

 

Dean never meant to sound so needy, didn’t even know how the words fought their way out of him to dare ask. But the second they stumbled across that threshold of his bedroom, that solid wall he threw up to force himself distant from people crumbled down, leaving him nothing but exposed. Vulnerable.

 

It might be the worst kind of feeling for Dean, something he’d denied himself feeling his entire life; because _vulnerable_ wasn’t something he’d ever been allowed to be. Though with Cas, vulnerable was often how he felt, finding he wanted to lean into it sometimes, tried tricking himself into it on occasion. Cas was the first person in his life that had ever really _let_ him lean, so, really, it wasn’t Dean’s fault that he wanted to. Not that he would ever stop cursing himself for _letting_ himself lean, of course.

 

“Of course,”

 

Unless, of course, something external brought his defences down. A difficult hunt, an unhealed injury, a _civilian_ lost in the fight against whatever they were fighting at the time. When that happened, which was both not often and far too often, Dean would retreat. Be it into a bottle, into himself, into his anger, where he pushed everyone away through his constant lashing out.

 

Cas never let him get away with it for too long, though. Through all of Dean’s harsh words for him, his kneejerk snapping, Cas was always there. An immovable force of belief in him, which, honestly, sometimes that was the hardest thing for Dean to deal with of all. That much faith in him, all that trust; he could never hope to live up to Cas’ belief in him. There wasn’t any point even trying.

 

“Will you… allow me to help?”

 

Cas, Dean sighed to himself, looking up from where he’d dropped himself down on to the edge of the bed. There were times on hunts, on the decisions they had to make that were for the survival of everyone else, when Cas would push him. Would force his way through to attempt to get Dean to see his way of thinking, would fight for what he felt was the right path to follow, even if they constantly butted heads about it.

 

But in this room, barriers down, everything was softer. Everything had a hush about it that took the edge off his sense of despairing. Although it had been quite a while since he’d been in a position where he needed helping out of his own clothes, Dean scoffed to himself, nodding in agreement and wondering why he didn’t feel more embarrassed about Cas helping him undress.

 

“Sorry, Cas,”

 

“What for?” Cas asked, distraction in his voice, making the task of shrugging out of his trenchcoat something demanding of his full attention. Dean watched him precisely fold it over the back of his chair, toe off his shoes, slip out of his jacket. It was a fairly innocent striptease, but Dean was riveted, never able to drag his eyes away from the solid lines, the fluid movements that were _Cas_ . He was beautiful, Dean found himself realising, a little taken back by the thought. There was nothing else in his world that Dean would ever call _beautiful_ ,  in such stark contrast to the mess that he was.

 

“That I’m… _this_ ,” which earned Dean a sharp, snapped glare, Cas’ eyes burrowing into him and staring him down as he loosened his tie, unbuttoned his sleeves, pushed them up past his elbows.

 

“Then there is nothing to apologise for,” Cas told him, kneeling before Dean, and silently untying his laces. Carefully cupping his calf to help slide the boots from his feet, then stroking over the swollen ankle, and the blood caked into the sock of the other.

 

“Yeah, right-”

 

“If anyone should be apologising, Dean-”

 

“You dare apologise that you can’t heal me right now, and I’ll… I’ll-”

 

“You’ll what?” Cas countered, sitting back on his haunches and staring up at him, daring him to speak.

 

Dean stared back, counting himself down until he’d finally break, allow his shoulders to sag, to admit to what he wanted. Cas knew it too, knew the tick of that clock far better than Dean sometimes. Because at just the right moment he was kneeling up, sliding his palms along Dean’s thighs, insinuating himself between them. A perfect fit, as always.

 

Dean’s exhale was violent, blasting out of his mouth as he melted, his hands coming up to cup Cas’ face, luxuriating in the feel of Cas’ stubble grazing there against his palms. And when he bent to kiss him, Dean had the distinct impression that despite Cas not having the spare grace to heal him with, this - _them_ \- was going some way to restoring him anyway. He sighed into the kiss, drew Cas closer to him, a wave of calm, wholeness washing through and allowing Dean to forget his bruised body, torn muscles, slashed skin.

 

“We should… clean your wounds,”

 

Dean closed his eyes to the words, instead concentrating on the feel of Cas kissing them into his neck, savouring the sensation of Cas’ hair beneath his fingertips, and the solid muscle of his back through his shirt.

 

It wasn’t often when he was like this, when he allowed defeat to get to him so much that the idea of even cleaning himself felt too big to deal with. And Cas knew, if Dean let himself fall into bed fully clothed, he’d wake refreshed, but angry at himself for dirty sheets; evidence he’d indulged in a moment of weakness, or self-pity.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, ‘probly should,”

 

“And shower,”

 

Dean smiled then, because the amendment was kissed into his cheek, and followed up by a promise whispered into his ear that sent a shiver down the length of his spine. Dean ducked to claim Cas’ mouth again, humming his agreement there, stroking stretched out, greedy fingers over his back once more.

 

He may ache, Dean thought, bone weary and groaning, as Cas helped him to his feet again, holding him up until he could freely stand. He might be choking back the bile of disappointment, and fury, that their fight hadn’t gone quite right, that someone who had no business doing anything but living their life had been caught in the crossfire of theirs. But he had Cas, to hold him up, to support him, to let him _lean_ . To remind him, that what he and Sam did was worth something. That there was reason to keep going.

 

“Lead the way,”

 

On socked feet slipping along the quiet bunker floors, Dean followed, the reassuring press of Cas’ fingers between his own guiding him down corridors, through rooms, then peeling back his layers to carefully check over his wounds and bruises. The spray of the shower hit his back as Cas wrapped himself around from the front, and Dean melted into it, to him, giving in to this moment of being weak.

 

“You are not weak, Dean,” Cas denied, proving to Dean that even without using his angel abilities, Cas still heard him like no one else ever did. “You are not weak. Not broken, not tarnished; you are allowed to _feel_ , Dean,”

 

Cocooned in warm water and Cas’ arms, Dean allowed himself to believe it, refused the voices that blamed him for all the world’s wrongs. Let himself feel, and _want_.

 

“Would you stay?” he asked again, sighing into every one of Cas’ kisses, luxuriating in the feel of his wet skin against his own.

 

“ _Stay_ , would mean I ever had any intention of leaving you, Dean,” Cas answered, soft and solemn in that way no one else could ever be. “ _Stay_ , _w_ ould suggest I had anywhere else to be than here. I am _home_ , Dean. Here, with you,”


End file.
